


Lauren

by sadieHD



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Heavy Angst, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 09:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12273594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieHD/pseuds/sadieHD
Summary: Emily Prentiss, alone in Paris two weeks already, struggles to battle her inner demons that have resurrected with Doyle's attack and the loss of her family.





	Lauren

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! This is a single chapter of my [Fallen Into The Abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11460438/chapters/27895539) series where I write a short fic for each episode of Criminal Minds. I was really proud of this one so I made it a separate work.

Emily stood in front of the bathroom mirror, leaning heavily on the counter, stripped down to her underwear. The curtains were shut despite the wonderful view of the city of love and the doors and windows were triple locked with delicately triggered alarms ready to alert her to any intruder. She’d normally mock someone for being so ridiculously paranoid, but considering the last few months she’s had, she figured she’d earned the right to be a little extra cautious. Especially with Doyle still out there.

With Doyle still out there. She shuddered at the thought. It hadn’t been two weeks since her encounter with her old nemesis and she already felt she was going mad. The only thing worse than dying was being alone. She’d grown accustomed to having a family over the past four years. But when trouble rose it’s ugly head, she’d run. She didn’t know what else to do. Maybe she’d gotten used to working as a team, but her instincts had prevailed despite all reasoning.

God, why had she been so stupid? Why hadn’t she just gone to Hotch? She didn’t know what made her hide everything. Was it pride? Clyde was so sure that he could get them out of this, and she’d been foolish enough to believe him. Then again, did she really trust anyone even more? She could blame her old Unit Chief for convincing her that they could get Doyle again, but she never would have believed him if she hadn’t believed it herself. Was it fear? She’d gone to the bar with one mission: to kill Doyle. But she’d be lying if she said she was surprised when she woke up in that warehouse. She’d really been naïve enough to think that maybe, just maybe, if Doyle had Lauren again, he’d leave them alone. But she’d taken his family, so of course he’d want to take hers.

Family. Did she even have a family anymore? Even if they somehow pulled through all this and she could go home, was there a home to return to? Would they want her back? She stared at herself in the mirror. Her face was weary. Her hair was ragged; she hadn’t showered in at least three days. It probably wasn’t good for her wound, but she found she didn’t care enough to actually do something about it. She hadn’t been eating or drinking well, evident in her defined ribs, bony limbs, and colorless, chapped lips. Her eyes were hollow and shadowed by dark circles from lack of sleep. She hadn’t looked this bad since the months following the events in Rome, back when she doubted her very existence. Here she was, doing it again. Would they want her back??

Her dreams of late had not been pleasant. They’d been plagued with blond haired boys, running in circles around her. She’d wake up calling out to Declan and Jack, reaching for the children she loved as if they were her own, but unable to reach them. When she wasn’t crying for her lost boys, Doyle haunted her nightmares. A pain seared through her chest, ripping apart her heart from the inside. She’d jolt awake, clutching at the clover that branded her chest. She knew how to deal with scars, but she couldn’t stand being permanently crested to something less than human.

Without even realizing what she was doing, she found a knife in her hands. She blinked in a dull imitation of surprise. The knife was one of many weapons she kept littered around the barren apartment she was using as a temporary base until... until what? The gleaming blade reflected the bathroom light as she slowly rotated the knife in her hand, turning it over in an attempt to familiarize herself with the new handle. The faux leather was reminiscent of the knife she used all those years ago after Rome to create clean-cut scars that had long since faded. 

Until what? Her old friends--as if she had the right to call them that anymore--would have no luck finding her old nemesis. But would Doyle continue hunting them? Assuming the plan was successful and he had no knowledge of her survival, would he be content to merely let them live or would he enact his revenge on her family before attempting to find that sweet little boy? Perhaps all of their suffering would cease if she took her own life before another monster got the chance. Surely her life was nothing worth fighting for. 

She could’ve laughed at how easily she slipped into her old mindset. How many times had that happened already in the past month? Too many to count, surely. In an ironic twist that could only happen in stories, she seemed to be regressing. First her recent past seeped into her new job, and now she was standing in front of a bathroom mirror with a knife to her wrist. After everything she’d gone through, was this what she wanted? No. Because then he would win. He would still watch her fall and she would never get up again. With a familiar ferocity, the kind so ingrained in our bones it was pure primitive rage, she gathered her waning strength and rose. 

She looked in the mirror, her eyes fixated on that mark. That one fucking mark that seemed to go deeper than her skin, deeper than her flesh. He’d branded her very soul. She’d never be free as long as his stain remained. She gripped the knife, her knuckles whitening as they tightened around the hilt. She gingerly brought the knife to her chest, starting just over the tattoo. She had screamed when Doyle branded her. She’d rather die than scream for him again.

She barely nicked herself, flinching as blood started trickling down her breast. It hurt more than she had imagined and all the pain from Rome and beyond came rushing back. Wincing, she glanced at the closed medicine cabinet, envisioning the bottle of painkillers she was given if the stomach wound ended up being any trouble. The stinging in her chest hadn’t subsided. She narrowed her eyes and firmly made her decision. She had to do this.

She carefully picked at the loose skin, her fingers nearly slipping with the blood. The thick liquid pooled at the new wound as she began gently pulling at the skin, using the knife to cut in a circle around the tattoo. She wasn’t pulling off all the layers of her skin, but it was enough to painfully sever the tender nerves tickling the surface. The shooting pang was nearly overwhelming, but she steeled against it. She’d suffered more agony in the past two weeks with this branded on her than she thought she’d ever been able to withstand. If she had to walk through fire to get this fucking mark off, she’d do it. Anything to get it off. Get it off. Get it off.

The skin was pulled half off the circle when her vision started to go blurry. Get it off. The blood completely covered her torso. Get it off. Every time she sawed at the skin with the knife, the blackness around the edges of her eyesight crept closer. Get it off. The pain was unbearable. Get it off. Her chest was throbbing. Get it off. Her ears were ringing and muffled all at the same time. Get it off. She could hear her heart pounding desperately. Get it off. Her stomach was starting to ache. Get it off. She tasted the sour tang of bile in the back of her throat. Get it off.

She knew she couldn’t handle much more. Her patience had run thin. She ignored her bloodstained hands and grabbed the loose skin tightly before tearing the remaining circle off of her flesh, bringing her other hand to her mouth and biting it roughly to keep herself from screaming. The branded skin slapped unceremoniously onto the cool ceramic sink, the noise itself nearly making her gag. It was over. It was over.

It was over. She sank to the floor, her legs weak from keeping her standing so long--the longest she’d attempted since her surgery--and her head woozy from her self-harm. But it wasn’t self-harm, was it? A weight had been lifted off her shoulders, yet it felt like so much more. It was as if a giant blanket of despair that had been suffocating her, muffling the world around her, was gone. She could feel. Fuck, she could feel everything. The fluorescent apartment bathroom lights burned her eyes; the distant traffic from the streets below rang in her ears; the cool tile burned against her feverishly warm flesh; the rotting, metallic stench of her own blood flooded her nostrils; she could taste the coppery liquid coating her mouth from when she bit her hand. Her eyelashes fluttered, threatening to close. But no--she had to experience all of it.

Because it was more than just her senses. She felt the love for her family. Derek was probably furious at her. He’d learned a long time ago how to be mad at the dead, since it was so much easier than the helplessness of grief. Penelope would be beyond miserable, trying so hard to overcompensate by showing everyone how much they meant to her. JJ knew, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be wracked with guilt as she hid the truth from the people she loved. God, Spencer would be so distraught; she wasn’t the first person to leave him and neither of them were naive enough to think she would be the last. Coming back would be a dream come true for him, but also his worst nightmare. Dave would keep going. He was the strong one—he’d have to for the others. But he would be suffering quietly as well. And Aaron…Aaron knew. JJ said so. He would blame himself for everything. There was no doubt in her mind that he would lock himself away, allowing the guilt to fester inside him. He would make sure everyone knew they could go to him to talk, not that any of them would, but that was part of the punishment in a way. But not him. Oh no, he wouldn’t allow himself to find solace in anyone, thinking he didn’t deserve it. That stupid, stupid man.

Did Jack know? Declan wouldn’t remember her, but Jack knows what it’s like to lose someone. He’s so young, but he’d already been through so much. Aaron couldn’t have told him, not after Haley. Her boys… her boys had each a dead mother and a broken father. And they shared a woman foolish enough to cry for them both. She could see both boys, clear as day, dancing in front of her.

Her eyes flitted shut. Her blood had run off her naked body onto the floor into a small pool, the warm, sticky liquid clinging to form, as if trying to protect her from the cold tile. She hadn’t noticed she’d been shivering until she stopped, too weak from whatever malady was keeping her down. But it wouldn’t for long. She would rise. She felt something deeper than sleep reach its tendrils through her, lulling her away from consciousness. With her exposed flesh on her breast pulsating torturously, she fell into the darkness’s embrace.

She would rise.


End file.
